As a child, I remember watching the Princess Bride with my father, and being in awe of the dashing and witty Westley. But as a young woman, I find myself rewatching the film and wondering how Buttercup could be so sure of her faith in her farm boy. What if in another world, Westley hadn’t made it in time?
She remains seated there, on the edge of her windowsill in nothing but a silken night robe, wondering if he too is awake. The cold stone of the sill feels rough as it scratches against her bare calves. The last gibbous…
Sitting on these leather seats,
Willing the car to hasten and the route to shrink.
When did the silences between us become so thick?
As if to suffocate us while we drive
Until all that is left is a singular thought,
Ricocheting between our two still bodies
Do you remember the old us?
Standing against the bar tabletop,
Willing the scotch to go down smoother than our last words.
When did the drinks we share become so bitter?
As if to mimic the conversations we now have
Like hard spirits that burn to swallow,
But also make it easier…
Logging all the reroutes from now so I have a map to help orient me by the time of the mid-life crisis.